Celebrating with teammate Rob Ramage, exultation is etched across Brad McCrimmon’s grinning mug, its buoyancy in stark contrast to the freshly opened wound it bore, a jagged tearing of flesh, turning a grotesque purple and running down the bridge of his nose.

“I picked it up in Game 5,” reported McCrimmon on May 25th from inside the bowels of the fabled Montreal Forum. “But I didn’t even feel it tonight.”

If anyone on that team best personified the glue guy, the indispensable cog content to remain in the background — and the 1988-89 edition of the Calgary Flames was, despite its wealth of top-end talent, filled with such players. Patterson, Nattress, MacLellan, Otto, Murzyn, etc. — it had to be the guy with the No. 4 plate stitched across his broad back.

“Ah, Beast,” says Lanny McDonald nostalgically, voice softening at the mention of the name. “A man’s man. Gruff. Tough. And if you look at some of those photos, cuts on his nose, teeth missing. But he couldn’t wait to go back to war for Game 1, Game 2, Game 3 . . . the tougher it got, the more he showed up, the better he got.”

McCrimmon’s mentoring skills are renowned — Mark Howe, Chris Pronger, Gary Suter and Nick Lidstrom all apprenticed under the unflinching gaze of the honest farmer from Plenty, Sask. Not someone to be trifled with at the workplace, his yes meant yes and his no meant no. There was certainly no bunkum about Beast.

Brad McCrimmon’s gone now, lost in the tragic air crash that killed 37 members of the Lokomotiv Yaroslavl Kontinental Hockey League team on Sept. 7th, 2011. He was, at the time, entering his first year as a head coach in the pro ranks, had up and relocated to the KHL for that very opportunity.

Given the chance, he would have made a fine one.

“He was,” recalls Theoren Fleury, a mere moppet 20 the night of the 25th, “just that abrasive guy, y’know, that loved beer and chicken wings. The quintessential old-school kinda dude. He was just . . . solid. No frills. Could make that first pass, a great penalty killer and he was ----ing dirty. Nobody messed with him on the ice. One of those veteran guys you’ve gotta have on your team.”

Back in 1989, what he brought to an organization seeking to establish itself as NHL power was that sense of balance, of unflinching dedication, of consummate professionalism. McCrimmon, naturally, played in all 22 post-season skirmishes in the spring of ’89, registering three points, all assists. But his influence, needless to add, went galaxies beyond any mere statistic.

“Beast was just . . . solid,” says goaltender Rick Wamsley. “Stayed with himself. You knew what you were getting. Every day. He was just . . . Beast. I don’t know how to describe it, really. He was like that family member that doesn’t change that you can always count on. The one that just makes you feel that everything’s all right. We’re OK. Crispie used to say ‘there’s too much grey in our game. We need more black and white.’ Beast was the black and white.”

For McCrimmon, finally winning a Cup held special significance. Twice he’d reached final while in the employ of the Flyers, with Philly coming up short each time.

“Both years we were a beat-up hockey club,” he said on vindication night in Montreal. “We were bleeding from the pores. The first time we weren’t even close, but the second time we took Edmonton into the third period for the seventh game.

“This year, apart from Gary Suter, we were pretty injury-free. That made a big, big difference.”

Twenty-five years later, that photo snapped in the midst of post-Game 6 celebrations alongside Rob Ramage still says it all.

“He looked,” recalled trainer Bearcat Murray the day McCrimmon was taken far too soon, aged 52, “like he’d been through a meat grinder. How he took some of the crap he did in that series, I’ll never know. He wasn’t big on taking crap.

“But that was Brad. A warrior.”

It’s often said that personal losses are the toughest on anniversaries. Lanny MacDonald knows what they mean, as the 25-year commemoration of that ’89 championship approaches.

“It’s so, so sad that Brad’s not here to celebrate with all of us. He meant so much to everybody, and to the success of that team. We miss him. Because those championships . . . they may only take a year, but they last a lifetime.”

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